


Noli Me Tangere (Don't Touch Me)

by gaylock



Series: Darling Disaster, You Are My Sin [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Attempted Rape, Dark, Hurt, Irene is his BFF, Lesbian Irene, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pain, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sebastian Wilkes Is A Dick, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock is so scared, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sherlock, Victor Trevor Being An Asshole, Virgin Sherlock, Why is this happening to him?, Young Sherlock, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Centric Prequel to Call Me Darling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noli Me Tangere (Don't Touch Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to Call Me Darling. I'm sorry if it's a bit dark for you, but I just wanted to establish that Sherlock has gone through some really terrible stuff before his appearance in Call Me Darling, later on. I'll be doing a few more prequel stories that are Sherlock centric, just to establish his character more. I may even throw in a couple for John, Molly, Anthea and Irene, since Call Me Darling is most likely to be Mystrade centric.

Sherlock Holmes really didn't like school. No, don't get me wrong, he loved learning. Absolutely loved it, he would soak up information like a sponge, and was always reading some text or another on his favourite subjects. That was why he was three years ahead of his age group. No, what he didn't like about school was the people. The stupid girls, with their little pigtails and their stupid pink accessories. Always talking about their pet rabbits or how they want a puppy or kitty for Christmas. Fluttering their lashes and giggling high pitched giggles in the hopes of catching one of the boy's attention. It was  _sickening_.

And  _the boys_ \- my god! They were even worse! Always flexing their weak little muscles, talking about the new bike their dad bought them, or the car they were going to get. Pulling out non-school regulation magazines, with  _obscene_  pictures of nearly naked women, sprawled out on top of shiny motorcycles and even shinier cars, wearing string bikinis. And they would stare at the photo's, and point out their favourites, and brag about what they would do to those women if they ever met them, as if they knew how to please a woman,  _as if they knew anything about sexual activity at all_. They bragged about their non-existent sexual exploits, and whistled at the girls in the grades above them, treating all women like they're just objects to use for ones own sexual pleasure. 

But that wasn't even the worst of it. In between all the bragging, and the lies, and the attempts at being macho, these same boys would allow their insecurities to come out, and consume them. And it was then, that they would seek out a person who was better than them at something, and they would pummel that person (sometimes alone and sometimes in groups), until they no longer felt insecure. As if beating someone else up could prove that they were somehow superior to that person, as if they became better by instigating violence. And Sherlock was the best at lessons, and more often than not also one of the boys the 'prettiest' girls would try to flirt with. So of course he was also the main punching bag.

Not that he cared. Sherlock was fine with being the other boy's favourite punching bag- he was after all, quite adept at defending himself if he ever truly needed to. Personally, he thought the attacks were fairly pathetic. No, he could handle whatever they threw at him, since he would still be the top student in any academic class he entered. What he couldn't handle, however, was Physical Education.

Sherlock scowled. Physical Education was clearly a class thought up by a sadist, who enjoyed the idea of torturing children. As far as he could see, it served absolutely no purpose, other than to humiliate those who were otherwise completely superior. Because, despite being completely adept on a physical level, and in fact quite a good runner, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely dreadful at sports. Not just average, or even bad; absolutely horrid.

Terrible.

Completely incompetent.

You tossed a ball towards him, and he would do the logical thing and dodge out of the way, instead of catching it and tossing it back. You pitched a baseball to him, and his swing was so wild, that he had more chance of hitting himself than he did of hitting the ball. You served a tennis ball, and instead of lobbing it back across the net, he would end up smacking it so hard it would clear right out of the court.

But the thing he was absolutely the worst at was football. When the teacher split the class into two teams, his teammates would make absolutely sure not to ever pass him the ball. Which was a total relief for Sherlock; it meant he didn’t have to attempt to kick it towards one of his teammates, or heaven forbid, the net. He tried his best to stay out of everyone’s way and stay off to the sidelines. But every now and then, he would get the ball passed to him, and his teammates would look to him to kick it farther up the field.

Now was one of those times. The black and white ball came shooting towards him, and Sherlock had to physically stop himself from dodging out of the way and letting it pass him and go out of bounds.

“Come on, Holmes! Pass it to Wilkes, he’s open!” Victor Trevor’s voice shot through the air towards him just after the ball had rolled to a stop next to his foot, and Sherlock found himself staring up at the blonde hair of one of his most frequent tormentor’s; Sebastian Wilkes. Wilkes was about thirty feet away from him on the field, and Victor was right, there were no obstacles in the way. It would be a clear shot, so long as he didn’t bugger it up. Sherlock took a deep breath and drew his foot back, holding it there a moment, before pushing it forwards and kicking the ball as hard as he could, the mathematic calculations for angle and speed of the kick, weight of the ball and wind resistance running through his mind. The ball went sailing through the air, ten, twenty, thirty feet…

In the completely wrong direction.

“Thanks Holmes! You just gave us the game!” Came the voice of the opposite team’s center forward, Janette Maine. Her teammates laughed as she ran across the field, the ball never far from her feet as she dodged past all of his teams’ defense and kicked the ball towards the goal. Sherlock stood frozen in his spot as he watched the ball sail past the arms of their goalie and into the net. Jeanette’s team cheered loudly as the teacher blew her whistle signaling the end of the game.

“Way to go, Holmes.” Trevor said, his shoulders hunched as he trekked back towards the school. Sherlock scowled in his direction, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.

“Yeah, thanks for nothing, Freak.” Sebastian Wilkes’ voice came up behind him and before he had the chance to turn around, Sherlock found himself sputtering and choking on ice cold liquid. He blinked his eyes quickly, trying to get the water out of them, and raised his hands to push his now sopping curls out of his eyes. He stared into the sneering face Wilkes, and tried to come up with something scathing to say back.

All he could come up with was a half hearted, “Don’t call me that.”

Sebastian laughed darkly and pushed past him, tossing his now empty water bottle down onto the ground. “Whatever, Freak. You totally missed the completely open shot, it was fucking easy, and you missed it. What else should I call you? You’re a freak and you know it. And if you don’t watch it, you’ll find yourself with a black eye before the school day is over.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, picking up the water bottle on his way towards the school (he hated it when people littered; I mean really, how hard was it to just throw it in a trash can?). His steps were slower than the rest of his class, and as a result he arrived at the gym doors after the rest of the students had already gone to the locker rooms and gotten changed. He lingered inside the boy’s locker room, pretending that he was removing clean clothing from his locker, until it was empty. Then he walked over to the sink counter and pulled himself up on the ledge, his long legs dangling down.

He let out a sigh and stared down at his hands. Why couldn’t he just be good at football, just once? Or at least just good enough that Sebastian and Victor would stop picking on him.

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror in front of him, and frowned. He hated what he saw there, underneath the dark messy curls and behind the blue-green-grey eyes. He was useless. So what if he was good at other things? So what if he was smart? People didn’t care about that. People cared if you were big and strong, if you could hit a baseball across the field or throw a ball through a basket. People cared if you were good at sports, and if you owned a fancy car or a bike. People cared if you had a hot girlfriend, and knew a lot about sex.

People cared if you were cool.

He stared at himself in the mirror and his scowl deepened. He wasn’t any of those things. He wasn’t good at sports. He didn’t have a girlfriend, never mind a hot one, and he knew nothing about sex. He didn’t have a nice car (he couldn’t even drive!) and he was terrified of motorcycle’s. He wasn’t cool, he wasn’t even average; he was a geek. A nerd.

A freak.

His hands balled into fists and he bared his teeth at himself in the mirror. “Fuck.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “I hate you. I hate you so goddamned much.” His eyes scanned his body in the mirror, from his knobby, weak knees to his skinny, too-long arms. They took in his messy hair and his angular face, with it’s dark brows and light eyes and felt like screaming. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!” He yelled, his hands unclenching and grabbing at the sides of his head, his eyes squeezing shut with the force of his outburst. “Why don’t you just die?”

“I’m sure we can arrange that for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and his eyes met the malicious gaze of Victor Trevor in the mirror. Beside him stood his partner in crime, Sebastian Wilkes, who’s lips were twisted in a parody of a smile. Sherlock swallowed heavily, his anger at himself forgotten in the writhing panic that had set in at the sight of the two older boys. Older and bigger.

Much bigger.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, trying to deepen his voice and keep it steady, trying not to show how scared he was. He turned around to face them, putting his back to the mirror and the wall it hung on.

“Oh, we decided that after that performance today, you might need a little…how did you say it, Vic?” Wilkes’s rough voice piped up.

Victor’s lips twitched in amusement. “Negative reinforcement.” They stepped forwards simultaneously, Sebastian moving towards Sherlock’s right and Victor to his left, making sure to leave no room for him to try and run past them.

Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth between the two boys and the locker room door, trying to calculate the probability of escape. He made a split second decision when Sebastian finally got within swinging distance and threw a punch at him; he ducked under the fist and lunged to the right, behind Sebastian’s body and away from Victor’s hands. He ran for the door, and had nearly made it when he felt a hand close around the neck of his shirt and yank him back. His legs flew out from under him and he went crashing towards the ground, his back smacking into the cold tiles.

“You little shit,” Sebastian growled at him, his fist coming down in the center of Sherlock’s stomach.

“Oof,” He said as all the air was pushed from his lungs. Sebastian punched him one more time in the ribs before yanking him up off the floor to press him against the wall, his forearm against the smaller boy’s throat.

“You think you can get away with something like that, and not get punished?” Sebastian’s voice was quiet in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock sneered and once he got his breath back he said, “I _think_ that your mother is cheating on your father with the cook- oh, _that’s_ awkward. Your cook is female, isn’t she?” His eyes stared forwards defiantly.

Sebastian’s growl of anger echoed off of the locker room walls. “Stop that, you lying piece of shit! That’s a lie, and you know it! You’re just a _freak_ , Holmes, so stop trying to be something you’re not!” He yanked himself back and swung his fist around to punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock ducked just in time to avoid being hit in the eye, but the fist glanced off the side of his head and caused it to smack backwards into the hard tile wall.

He hissed out a breath and crouched down, holding his head in his hands. Sebastian glared at him before stepping backwards. “He’s all yours, Vic. Have fun.”

“Hey Sebastian, I wouldn’t be too upset; your dad’s been too busy fucking the gardener to notice.” Sherlock spat out, his vision still too blurry to really see anything, and his head throbbing like crazy. Wilkes’s only response was, “Fuck you, you fucking fairy, my dad ain’t no poofter! I’m leaving Vic, you can do this on your own.” Before Sherlock heard the retreating footsteps of Sebastian Wilkes leave the locker room and shut the door behind him. Which left him alone with Victor. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief; generally, it was Sebastian who was the worst during his beatings. Victor’s job was mostly just holding him in place while Sebastian got his anger and insecurities out by pummeling him with his meaty fists. So Sherlock felt like he could relax, at least a little, with Victor the only one left.

“So is that what you like, Freak? You a shirt lifter? You a little fairy Freak? _Hmm?_ ” Victor’s soft voice came closer and closer, his tone dark. As Sherlock’s vision cleared (although his head still throbbed) he could see Victor fiddling with his belt. Why was he doing that?

His eyes went wide as he realized what that meant, what exactly it was that Victor was doing. His body began to shake. No, it couldn’t be…but Victor only held him down! He never actually hurt him, and he certainly never did…no. Just no.

“You like it up the arse, like a fucking ponce, like a poofter, Holmes? You a little _cock slut_? You like to have your smart mouth all pretty and pink, wrapped around a man’s cock, letting him fuck your face? Is that how you like it?” Victor unzipped his trousers and popped the button from its hole.

“N-no, no I don’t. Victor, I don’t like it like that, I don’t want…Victor, please, _don’t_ –” Sherlock stuttered, the words trying to get out in one big rush, one big scream of NO, NO I DO NOT WANT THAT, but he was shaking too badly to be able to say it properly.

Victor was now pulling his cock from his briefs, the head glistening and an ugly shade of dark purple, the colour of a new bruise. His hand fisted over the shaft as he held it there, erect, and stared with his green eyes at the trembling boy in front of him. His lips curled up in a smile, and he laughed. “What, nothing smart to say now? No ‘ _Your mother fucked your uncle_ ’ or ‘ _your father is a drunk_ ’? Come on, say it, I know you want to.”

Sherlock let out a high pitched whining sound, his eyes having taken one glance at Victor’s cock before squeezing shut in denial. “No, _please_ …” He whispered, shaking his head back and forth forcefully.

Victor’s cruel laugh rang out again. “Please what? Please stick my cock into that pretty mouth of yours? Please fuck your tight virgin arse? My, what nice manners for a cock slut. Is that what they teach you, those fancy private tutors your Mummy got for you when you were younger?” He took several steps closer until he was only about a foot away from Sherlock. “Was she awfully disappointed, when she found out? Did she get mad at you, when she learned you were a little cock slut, wanting it up the arse like a good little poofter? Is that why she made you come to this school? This school with the rest of us scum?” He reached out a hand and shoved Sherlock backwards against the wall, before pushing him down to his knees. His hand made a fist in Sherlock’s curls and tugged sharply. “That’s what you think of us, isn’t it? You with your fancy words and your perfect grades, you and that brother of yours think you’re _so_ much better than we are, you think you don’t belong in this dump with the rest of us normal, average blokes. Well let _me_ tell _you_ something, Freak,”

Sherlock whimpered, his head turned as far to the right as it would go, his eyes still squeezed shut tight, like if he kept them shut and didn’t look, it would turn out to be a nightmare, just a bad dream. Like if he kept them shut, he wouldn’t have to face what was about to happen.

Victor pushed his hand over his cock and moved even closer to the smaller boy’s face. “The truth is you are scum; the truth is you are no better than the rest of us. And I’m gonna prove it, by making you take my cock down your throat like the common whore you are, and you know what Holmes?” Victor pulled Sherlock’s curls until his head was turned up, and he used his thumb to push the boy’s bruised eyes open. “You know what? You are gonna _love it_.” He grinned down at the brunette, and giggled when Sherlock tried to force his head away, shaking it back and forth in denial, the fear of what was about to happen clear as day in his eyes.

“Oh hell yes you are. Freak’s always do.” Victor whispered, and thrust his cock forwards towards the brunette’s face, letting the head of slide across one of his cheeks, leaving a sticky gleaming trail in it’s wake. Sherlock let out a whimper at the contact, his eyes once again squeezing shut. Victor smirked, and just as he was about to force the head of his cock past Sherlock’s lips, the voice of the Phys. Ed. Teacher rang out through the closed doorway and into the locker room.  
  
“Who’s still in there? Class has been dismissed, you boys had better get out.”

Victor Trevor scowled fiercely, and reached out a hand to cover Sherlock’s mouth, making sure he didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry Ma’am, we’ll be out in a moment.” He called over his shoulder, still rubbing the head of his cock across Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes, which had shot open at the sound of the teacher’s voice, were staring up at Victor in fear, and when Victor scowled down at him and said quietly, “ _Not one fucking word_ , _understand?_ ” he nodded his head.

Victor sighed and stepped back, removing his hands from their places across Sherlock’s mouth and in his hair, before placing them both on his still erect penis and thrusting into them. He watched with hooded eyes as Sherlock knelt, frozen on the cold hard tiles of the floor for a few moments, his eyes staring downwards and his breath coming in short gasps as his brain tried to catch up with what had just happened. His eyes flew upwards when he heard a low grunting noise coming from the other boy, and he watched as Victor thrust one last time in his hands before coming. The white liquid pulsed over Victor's hands and his lips stretched in a lazy grin.

"Like what you see, Freak? Enjoy the show? Yeah you did." He smirked and straightened up, moving towards the sinks to rinse his hands and now limp cock off, before tucking it back into his pants and zipping his trousers up. "Well, this has been fun. Maybe next time I'll even let actually get a suck, hey?" Sherlock stared up at him with his eyes wide, his knees aching where they were pressed against the cold hard tile of the floor. His head was throbbing and he could feel his eyes beginning to swell from the bruising there. 

"Well, see ya, lover boy. Until next time." Victor said, stepping away with a cruel smile still twisting his lips, before he gave a mock salute and disappeared out the door. Once he was gone Sherlock let his body relax, sinking down to sit on the floor. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he couldn't stop them. It was like they had just been waiting for him to be alone, before they could burst out. He sniffled, and rested his aching head against the tile wall. He whimpered.

"Why me?" He asked himself, his voice sounding incredibly small in the vast silence of the locker room. He wiped his eyes and reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

The screen was cracked from where he had hit the ground, but otherwise it was fine. With trembling fingers Sherlock unlocked it and opened his contacts list, clicking on the name of the one person who could make it all better, make it all go away.

The phone only rang once before it was answered and the voice on the other end rang out, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stifled a sob and closed his eyes. "Locker Room." He said. 

The voice at the other end of the phone turned sad. "Oh, _Sherlock_." 

Sherlock could only sob. 

"Shhh, it's okay, I'm coming. Don't worry, everything will be okay, I promise." The voice at the other end of the phone said, it's words soothing. Sherlock wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

" _Please, Mycroft_." He whispered. " _Hurry_." 

 


End file.
